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<title>The Tears of St Lawrence by HolRose</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29209734">The Tears of St Lawrence</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/HolRose/pseuds/HolRose'>HolRose</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Guess the Author ficlets [5]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>6000 Years of Love (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Humanity (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Christian martyrs, Crowley Created the Stars (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), M/M, Martyrs, Mentions of death of OCs not in the story</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 06:07:46</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>500</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29209734</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/HolRose/pseuds/HolRose</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It is the 10th of August 2019 in the South Downs Dark Sky Reserve. Two supernatural entities arrive there with wine to watch the Perseid meteor shower and reminisce about two very different aspects of their past.</p><p>Written for the SOSH Discord Server Guess the Author prompt #12  'Saints'</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale &amp; Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Guess the Author ficlets [5]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2266376</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>SOSH - Guess the Author #12 “Saints"</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Tears of St Lawrence</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Streaks of light cut through the bowl of stars above them, like sudden slashes in spangled silk. The warm air was heavy with the smell of the crushed grass under their bodies, lady’s bedstraw and the pride of Sussex undercut with the sharp scent of ancient chalk.</p><p> </p><p>“Perseids” Crowley had said shortly when he arrived at the bookshop, “you comin’? I’ve got wine.”</p><p> </p><p>Before long they were rushing though hushed country lanes to broad uplands where man-made light no longer reached. Aziraphale stumbled walking on the path cut into the hillside missing his footing as he tilted his head to watch the night sky open up above him. Crowley caught his hand, steadying him, not letting go, Their fingers twined and they walked on, faces warm.</p><p> </p><p>They settled into the quiet night, bottle passed between them as they scanned the span of sky. Aziraphale felt the beat of the weary old world turning and his own heart, wistful and loving in the summer darkness. A light breeze, like a kind hand, ruffled his curls.</p><p> </p><p>“They call them the tears of St Lawrence, the humans do, I mean,” he ventured, “it’s his name day, tenth of August, when the meteors are at their height.”</p><p> </p><p>Since his break from his employers, Aziraphale had been troubled with memories. There was sadness, a reconsidering, concerning things he’d had to do, following orders. The early Christian times in Rome were one such. They had been difficult and painful, sent to oversee a festival of slaughter. Martyrs. Lives demanded by Heaven to bring more people unto God. He had walked with them and witnessed their deaths. After this he had taken it upon himself to ensure their sacrifice had not been forgotten. Name days had been his idea, written into the mythology of belief as beatification was granted them.</p><p> </p><p>“One of yours was he, angel?”</p><p> </p><p>Crowley’s voice was gentle, he knew, like he always did, that his counterpart was melancholy and needed comfort.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, I knew him, he was very kind, I hardly had to do a thing,” the angel’s eyes glimmered silver in the starlight, “archivists, librarians, chefs and comedians, he is their patron.”</p><p> </p><p>“Definitely one of yours, all the good stuff, angel, right there.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh yes, definitely my doing, a little mistake in transcription was all it took. I am glad they still remember him, even if the details have grown hazy in the telling.”</p><p> </p><p>There was a comfortable silence. Wine flushed, they gravitated towards each other shuffling together, a head inclined to fall on a shoulder, an arm winding round the curves of a soft waist.</p><p> </p><p>“One of mine, that,” said Crowley, after a time.</p><p> </p><p>“The comet?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, I thought they’d like it. I haven’t forgotten what I did either. I wish I could.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh <em>Crowley.</em> But it's beautiful!”</p><p> </p><p>Crowley produced another bottle, the cork vanished obediently. He clinked the neck of it with the one that remained mostly finished in the angel’s hand.</p><p> </p><p>“Here’s to making better memories.”</p><p> </p><p>“Together, darling?”</p><p> </p><p>“Together, angel.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>St Lawrence was a cool guy, he cared for the archives and treasury of the cathedral church of Rome in the 3rd century CE. When the Roman authorities demanded that he hand over the goods of the church he asked for 3 days to gather them together. In those days, he hid the books and distributed the wealth to the poor. On the third day, when asked to hand over the loot, he presented the Prefect of Rome with poor and disabled people, telling him that this was where the riches of the church lay. It is likely to be a myth that he was martyred by being roasted on a griddle, asking at one point to be turned over as he was ‘well done on this side’, stemming from a mistranslation of one word in the account of his death. Nonetheless, because of this, the gridiron became his symbol, and chefs and comedians were added to the archivists and librarians that he was already patron of because he saved vital books and manuscripts. I feel he was the kind of person who would have appealed greatly to Aziraphale, for his love of the written word, and for giving all that stuff away.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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